


Perfect

by kitkatkaylie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark, Minor Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkaylie/pseuds/kitkatkaylie
Summary: Ramsay Bolton is not so patient and kills his father shortly after his wedding in a fit of rage. Scared of what the new Warden of the North will do the Umbers bring a peace offering with them when they come to swear fealty.Ramsay sees this as an opportunity to torment his wife even further, and perhaps finally break her.
Relationships: Rickon Stark & Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark
Comments: 25
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this is going to be dark for quite some time, BUT there will be a happy ending. I don't plan on writing anything explicit, but references will be made to violence and non-con, so if that isn't your thing please don't read.

Rickon was cold and scared as he was led to the castle that had been his home once upon a time. Shaggy was caged, in a box too small for him and Rickon’s heart hurt from the fear that Shaggy felt as well. Shaggy did not like being unable to protect him. Protecting Rickon was Shaggy’s job and now Shaggy couldn’t because of these men who were also supposed to protect Rickon.

(Once upon a time Lord Umber had snuck Rickon and Bran sweets and now he was giving Rickon to the men who had killed Rickon’s mama and brother)

Winterfell looked different. It didn’t look like home anymore. The wolves had gone from the banners and the stones were blackened in places. In some ways it made returning easier.

There was a man stood in the courtyard (in father’s place, in Robb’s place), a man in pink and black with the flayed man upon his breast.

“Lord Umber.” The man greeted with a smile that looked anything but convivial.

“Lord Bolton.” Umber dismounted his horse and dragged Rickon down from his own, “I have a gift for you, my lord. Your good-brother.”

The man’s face split into a grin, “My good-brother? Lady Bolton will be pleased to know that Reek was not lying.”

If, if this man, if Lord Bolton was Rickon’s good-brother, then that meant…

The thoughts whirled around his head as he was led by his bound hands through the halls that were so familiar and yet so strange, until they were in a solar (Robb’s solar).

The door flung open with a bang to reveal three ladies, two with North dark hair, but one, one with hair of a colour he had only seen on one person. But she did not raise her head when the door opened, even as the other two leapt to their feet and curtsied at the lord.

“Get out,” Bolton snapped at the ladies, “I wish to speak with my wife.”

The ladies curtsied once more and fled the room, almost knocking into Rickon in their haste to do so.

Rickon found he did not care; he could not tear his eyes from his sister. He could not look away from the sister he had not seen for nearly six years, even if she had still not raised her head.

“Do you not want to see the gift I have for you, dear wife?” Bolton asked in a dangerously soft voice, “If you do not want it, then I am sure the kennels could use a new puppy.”

She finally raised her head, and she could not hide the naked fear and hope that flashed onto her face. She couldn’t hide the way that she looked at him with absolute desperation as if she was both ecstatic and terrified that he was there.

“Rickon.” She breathed and Rickon took a step forward quite automatically. He all but forgot about the other in the room at the sight of his sister, would have forgotten altogether and rushed to her had Bolton not started to laugh.

“Well isn’t this touching?” Bolton sneered, “The prodigal brother returns. Are you not going to thank me for such a gift, sweet Sansa?”

Sansa openly flinched at his voice and distaste crossed her face, but she did thank him in a voice that shook as much as her hands.

“Now dear wife, you and I are going to make a deal, regarding your little brother and the way you conduct yourself.”

Bolton pulled out a knife and cut the bonds on Rickon’s wrists, only to replace them with a grip that was just as tight and cutting.

“If you behave, my dear wife.” Bolton’s voice was as cold as the snow that had once been his name, “If you cease your attempts at rebellion, then your little brother will be quite safe.”

Sansa’s eyes shot to Rickon and he tried to look brave for her, tried to do something to keep the fear in her eyes growing ever deeper.

“But should you not, should you displease me.” The bastard licked his lips at those word, “Then it will not be you who is punished, after all he does not need all his fingers or toes now, does he?”

Rickon trembled at those words, at the sheer joy that Bolton’s voice held at the thought of hurting him. He did not want to be used as a weapon against his sister, not when she was the only family he had left.

Bolton dropped his wrist and crossed the room in quick steps so he could take hold of Sansa’s jaw in a punishing grip, “I asked you a question, sweet Sansa. And I expect an answer, unless you would rather your brother pay for your disobedience so soon?”

Sansa dropped her gaze to the floor, “I’m sorry my lord. You are right, he does not need all his fingers or toes to live. I will behave my lord, I promise.”

Her voice was filled with defeat and it filled Rickon with rage, Sansa should not sound like that, she should be happy and laughing like she was when mama was alive.

“If you are particularly pleasing,” Bolton caressed her face and Rickon could see the flinch she tried to hold back, “If you are particularly good, dear wife, then I shall allow you to see your little brother. Perhaps, even allow him to take Reek’s place as your lady’s maid.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Sansa whispered.

Bolton smiled, an ugly thing, not for the expression itself but for the emotion behind it. He moved to the door and yelled for the one he called ‘Reek’, and when the figure entered the hatred that Rickon had held for Theon Greyjoy all but disappeared.

There was little of the Theon Rickon had known in the figure before him, little of the boy who had been Robb’s best friend or the man who had stolen Winterfell from them. Instead the figure was as though someone had removed everything that had made Theon himself and left little but pain in their place.

“Reek, take Lady Bolton up to our chambers and help her dress for dinner. We have esteemed guests and she needs to look her best.”

Theon did not raise his eyes from the floor, “Yes, milord.”

“Its been said that my wife is one of the most beautiful women in Westeros, I expect to see that later.” Bolton leered at Sansa and Rickon watched as she suppressed another flinch.

Under Bolton’s watchful gaze Sansa and Theon left the room, leaving him alone with a wickedly grinning Bolton.

“Now, little lord, you and I are going to have a little chat.” Bolton flung himself into Rob’s chair and grinned at him, “As long as your sister behaves, I will not hurt you, and as long as you behave well, you won’t like to find out what happens if you don’t behave.”

Rickon shuddered at the look Bolton shot him, as though he was just daring him to misbehave.

Bolton barked out a laugh and stood, he ruffled Rickon’s hair, like Jon had used to, before twisting the strands around his fingers and yanking hard.

“Of course, once I’ve fucked a babe or two into your sister, I won’t have much need of either of you.” Bolton crooned into his ear, “And then, little lord, then you and your pretty sister will join me for a hunt.”

From the gleam in Bolton’s eyes, Rickon knew it would not be a hunt such as Robb used to go on.

* * *

Sansa sat still as Theon moved around her, fussing with and twisting her hair until it was styled as Ramsay preferred. His hands were gentler than many would have assumed, and his fingers were surprisingly nimble despite their tormented state.

Theon had not started off as her handmaiden, she had been given one of Lady Walda’s to start with and then when the Lady… disappeared, she had been given them in succession as they kept vanishing overnight while dogs howled in the woods. But each new handmaid took time to train, to learn how the lord liked his wife to look and eventually Ramsay had become tired of Sansa not looking the way he thought she would and had ordered Reek to attend to her instead.

Theon was probably the only person who was safe from the hounds in the whole castle for Ramsay would not want to train a new pet.

“Theon.” Sansa whispered, “Will he keep his word? If I’m perfect will Rickon be safe?”

She knew it was naïve and stupid to hope, to wish that she could just keep her baby brother safe, and Theon’s gaze could only be called pitying.

“He might be, milady.” Theon said softly, “But you can’t be perfect. The rules will change if you get close.”

Sansa knew he spoke of experience there, knew he had been promised things if he was perfect and perfection had always been out of reach.

She supressed the sob that wanted to escape, if she started crying she wouldn’t stop and Ramsay had said he wanted her pretty. His occasional insistence on her looking pretty reminded her so much of Joffrey, but if she could trade the two she would, for Joffrey was a spoilt brat with too much power while Ramsay was a monster.

“If, if you ever loved Robb,” Sansa finally breathed, “If you ever loved any of us, please, if you get the chance, protect him. Take Rickon and go. Take him to Jon, please.”

It was a risk to ask such a thing, to voice such a thought even, but she had to try. Had to hope that her pleas would encourage Theon to break free and act. It was unlikely he would change for her, but for Rickon who now looked so much like Robb? That might finally break through.

Theon trembled at her words and his hands shook worse than before but in the mirror she caught him give the slightest nod and hope began to bloom in her chest once more. She would gladly suffer any torment if it kept her brother safe. If it kept baby Rickon safe.

Rickon had always been hers, just as Arya was Jon’s, and Jon was Robb’s. Bran had been Rickon’s though, Bran had been the one Rickon had loved best, even as Rickon had been the one Sansa had loved most. And she would do anything to keep him safe.

Even sell her soul to a monster.

She’d survived this long, and now there was an end in sight. She only needed to be strong until Theon could get Rickon away, and then with their escape Ramsay would be angry enough she might finally join father and mother and Robb.

Until then, she only needed to be perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

She tried so very hard to be perfect, to hide the hatred she felt for her husband. To hide the flinches when he drew near and the whimpers that wanted to escape when his hand grazed her skin.

If she wasn’t perfect then Rickon would be hurt and she did not think she could live with herself if he was hurt for her misdeeds.

He so obviously enjoyed the terror in her eyes when he approached, when he tucked her arm in his so he could lead her to dinner. He enjoyed putting on a performance for the other lords, of pretending to be a loving husband while her wounds still bled beneath her gown.

The charade was out in full force that evening, every smile he sent her way was full of false affection, his every action the picture of chivalry as he played the art of an attentive husband.

He pulled her chair out for her, poured her a glass of wine, and ensured her plate was filled to his specifications. Her food was controlled, as was every other aspect of her life, and her plate was filled less than the others for he claimed he did not wish for a fat wife.

Sansa knew the truth, had seen it in the skeletal features of Theon, that it was merely another of his ways of showing his power and control over them. Part of her wondered whether he would do the same with Rickon, but really, she scolded herself, of course he would. It was something else he could use to control her behaviour.

“Thank you, my lord.” Sansa all but whispered, trying to keep to the fine line that was answering him without speaking when she was not wanted to.

He smiled at her as he sat down, but his smile did not reach his cold eyes, and she had to supress a shiver at the ice contained within.

“Lady Bolton, you look lovely this evening.” Lord Umber said though a mouthful of food, “Did you enjoy the gift we gave your husband?”

Sansa swallowed and glanced at Ramsay, unsure whether he would want her to answer. When he nodded slightly and dug his nails into her thigh below the table, she swallowed once more and spoke in a voice soft enough the others had to strain to hear.

“It was very kind of you, Lord Umber, to return my brother to me. He sends his apologies, but he is still tired from our reunion and so unable to attend dinner.”

The nails dug in even further, and Sansa knew that if it were not for her dress she would be bleeding already.

She took a careful bite of her meal and absently wished there was more of it, she knew she had lost weight for her gowns did not fit as they had before

Although perhaps it was a good thing she was losing weight, she thought absently, after all she had heard it said that those women who were too thin had troubles carrying a baby. And Sansa did not want a baby. She did not want to bring a child into the world which carried Bolton blood.

Even if a pregnancy might serve to lessen the brutality of her husband.

* * *

Reek did not like to see the anger on his Master’s face when Master looked at Rickon Stark. He feared what it meant for the boy he (no, not Reek, Reek hadn’t known them) who Theon had seen take his first steps and speak his first words.

(It didn’t help that Rickon looked so much like Robb had back when the only thing he had needed to worry about was Lord Stark taking his head)

Master had told Reek that Rickon would be staying in one of the tower rooms, where he would be hidden from neighbouring lords and ladies. Master did not want people to know he had the last trueborn son of Lord Stark; he was scared the lords would rise up if they knew.

Reek had been ordered to clean the chamber for Rickon, to remove anything that could be used as a weapon and Reek had done something very bad. He had found a wooden figure, a wolf, and hidden it beneath the pillow in the chamber. The figure had belonged to Rickon’s brothers once upon a time and had somehow survived everything that had happened since then, and maybe it would offer the child some comfort.

(Reek knew Theon had been bad, knew Theon had deserved what Master had done to him, but he didn’t think Rickon did)

Reek though of what Lady Sansa had said, how Reek should run with Rickon if he got the chance and it made Bad thoughts run through his head.

He should not want to leave Master. Master was kind, Master only wanted to teach Reek how to be good and loyal. Reek loved Master.

But Reek had loved Baby Rickon first.

Baby Rickon had not been old enough to dislike Theon for his family. Had not understood the difference between Theon and Robb and Jon, he had loved them all equally and Theon had loved him in return.

And, and maybe if Lady Bolton ordered him to, Reek wasn’t really being bad? If Lord Ramsay was his Master then surely, as his wife, that made Lady Sansa his Mistress?

The twisted sort of logic curled around in Reek’s brain, soothing him from the terror his Bad thoughts brought him.

After all, if he was ordered to save Rickon then he wasn’t being Bad.

(And if that conclusion made the tiny part of him that was still Theon come back to life, well who was to know?)

* * *

Rickon was scared.

He tried so hard to be brave like Bran, and strong like Robb. He tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that Sansa, that his big sister who had used to carry him everywhere, that she wouldn’t let him be hurt.

But Rickon saw how scared Sansa was, although she had tried to hide it.

And that made Rickon even more scared.

If something, if someone, could scare _Sansa_ then it must have been scary indeed because Sansa hadn’t ever been scared of the thunderstorms and had always had the best advice on how to deal with the monsters under the bed.

It did not help that he did not recognise the room he was in. It was not a room Mama had let Rickon go in before, it was too high and too cold to be somewhere he could explore.

He curled up on the small bed, trying desperately to hold back the tears that wanted to fall. He was hungry and cold and tired, and more than anything else wanted Osha or Sansa or Mama to give him a hug.

But Mama and Osha were dead, and Sansa could only see him if Bolton let her.

Rickon curled up even smaller, pulling the pillow closer to try and simulate a hug. As he did so his hand curled around a piece of wood, cold and almost pointed in places. A piece of wood that was revealed to be a toy wolf, like the one he remembered Bran playing with, back before Robb and Mama went away.

He pulled it close to him, the symbol of a home and family lost to him and let the tears fall.

Maybe when he woke up it would all be a horrid dream.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa ached all over.

Every muscle hurt, every scratch upon her skin burned, and every bruise was pressed upon by her gown and the casual possessive touches that Ramsay inflicted upon her.

But she kept the small, vapid smile on her face that she had perfected in Kings Landing, for Bolton had said he would hurt Rickon if any of the lords thought that they lived in anything but happily wedded bliss.

It was all that kept her from reaching out to Lord Manderley, for although the lord would gladly rise up for the Starks once more, he would not be able to move fast enough to save Rickon.

No one would be able to save both her and Rickon, and Sansa found she was fine with that, as long as it was Rickon who was saved.

So, she smiled and spoke when others spoke to her and was that twittering little bird she had been, back when the only pain she had felt was the loss of her father, back when she still had hope that Robb would rescue her and take her home again.

And inside she was screaming.

By the time Ramsay curled his hand around her arm to lead her back to their chamber she was almost relieved, for at least there she did not have to hide the pain he felt or supress the urge to scream. At least there it was easier to pretend she was not in Winterfell, that she was not being hurt in her own home.

Ramsay tried to tell her something, but his words lacked some of the malice normally found in them.

He was ever so slightly drunk, and the smile on his face lacked some of its usual cruelty. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would not extract a too steep toll of she asked him for something.

“Might I see my brother, my lord?” Sansa breathed, scared to showcase her desires but she knew that unless she asked she would not be allowed.

He paused in his movements and looked at her, a searching expression on his face.

“And what is such a visit worth sweet Sansa?” He reached out and caressed her face, a movement that meant she had to supress a flinch for fear of angering him, “What payment would you give me for such a privilege?”

Sansa felt bile rise in her throat but did not let the taste of it show, “Whatever you wished for, my lord.”

His face gained some of its malice back, “Well then, dear wife, come here I believe I know how you might repay me.”

Sansa retreated into her mind, to the Winterfell of her childhood where she and her siblings all played together happily under the Summer sun, as his hand pressed on her shoulder.

She could suffer any hurt, any indignity if it kept Rickon safe.

* * *

It was boring, being alone in his tower room. No one spoke to him, Theon did not even look at him when he brought him meals.

It was a far cry from the plains and woods that he and Shaggydog used to run around.

Footsteps on the stairs had him shooting to his feet and tucking the small wooden wolf beneath a pillow. He did not want his only entertainment, his only link to the rest of his family to be taken away.

The door opened carefully, and his fear became truth, for Bolton stood on the other side, glaring menacingly over Sansa’s shoulder.

Had she done something? Was he to serve as a lesson for his sister?

Fear filled Rickon’s chest, at the thought of what Bolton could do to him. At the thought of what he might already have done to Sansa.

“Here you are, my dear wife.” Bolton smiled, “Your baby brother still as you last saw him.”

Sansa did not look at either of them, but kept her gaze trained on the floor.

“Thank you, my Lord. Might we have some time to spend together? There is much I should like to speak of with him.”

Bolton stroked his chin in a show of thought, “But that was not our deal, Sweet Sansa, our deal was that you could see little Rickon, and seen him you have.”

Rickon wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all, at someone not a Stark dictating their movements within Winterfell.

A glint came to Bolton’s eye, one that Rickon wished to shy away from, “I am not, however, completely heartless, dear wife. I know how it is to lose a brother after all. I shall extend our deal, sweet Sansa, you might stay here with your brother for an hour, alone even. In return, well, I think you know what I want in payment for my generosity.”

Rickon wanted to shout to his sister, to scream that she shouldn’t take the offer, that it was enough just to have seen her. And yet the words got stuck in his throat, he could not voice them, and a horrible, selfish part of him was glad that he couldn’t.

Sansa dipped into a shallow curtsey, “Thank you, my lord. You are most generous.”

Bolton gripped her chin in his hand and dragged her face down into a harsh kiss.

“Yes, I am.” He said, in a voice that could almost have been kind were it not for the cruel smirk, “One hour, dear wife.”

He sauntered out of the room, slamming and locking the door behind him with a deafening crash. They were completely still until his footsteps had faded from the stairs and they were alone as they would ever be.

In a surge of movement Sansa ran over to Rickon and scooped him up in her arms, clutching him tight to her chest. Rickon clutched back just as hard, twisting his fingers in her dress and hair and completely loathe to ever let go.

But they only had a short amount of time together and after a few minutes they separated enough to be able to see each other’s faces.

Rickon bit back all the anger that wanted to erupt at the sight of the hurt on his sister’s face, of the blood that dribbled from her lip and the deep black marks beneath her eyes.

“Sansa?” He spoke up, his voice more timid than he could ever remember it being before, “Are you all right?”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but they did not fall, instead a stiff smile pulled on her split lip causing more blood to trickle down her chin.

“Of course I am sweetling, I have you with me, why wouldn’t I be?”

Rickon untangled his hand from her hair so he could wipe away the trickle of blood on her chin, and pretended not to see the flush of embarrassment that flashed on her face as he did so.

“Why don’t you tell me all about the adventures you and Shaggy had while I was gone, hmm?” Sansa crooned to him, her voice deliberately light.

He untangled himself, just enough that he could pull her over to the bed, so that they might curl together in a little more comfort. And curl together they did, until they looked like Summer and Shaggy had as pups, and all the while Rickon was careful of where he held Sansa, careful not to make her hurt more.

“Did you know that Robb and Theon saved Bran from wildlings?” Rickon looked straight into the eyes that were a mirror of his own, “They brought back Osha. Osha was my friend, she saved me when the bad people came here and stole Winterfell from us. She told me stories of giants and mammoths and, and the King Beyond the Wall.”

Sansa’s eyes lit up with something approaching wonder at that, “Did she? And did you see any of those things?”

He shook his head, “No. But we did see Jon!”

“You saw Jon? Our brother Jon?”

“Yes, we saw Jon, he was with some wildlings. Summer and Shaggy helped him escape from them.”

“Was he well?” Sansa’s eyes had started to fill with tears at the mention of their brother, and at the thought he might be hurt they threatened to fall.

“Jon’s leg was hurt. But Shaggy only howled for Lady and Greywind so, so Jon must be alive!” Rickon hastened to reassure her.

He reached out to wipe the tears from her cheeks, and startled as she took his hand in a strong grip.

“Rickon, sweetling, you must promise me that if Theon comes for you, if he tries to take you away, that you go with him.” Sansa spoke quickly and urgently, her eyes boring into his with an intensity he remembered Robb having when he was being Lord Robb. “Please, promise me you will go with him and will not look back for me.”

Rickon could not bear to think of leaving Sansa behind, of leaving her with Bolton when he would be so angry if he and Theon escaped.

“But-” He protested, but the rest of his protest was cut off by Sansa laying a finger over his mouth and speaking firmly.

“As long as I know you are safe, then I can endure anything. You and Theon, you go to Jon. He’ll keep you safe. Now please, promise me.”

“I promise.”

He curled in closer to her, aware that it might be the last chance he had for a while, maybe even forever if he did manage to escape and Bolton was really mad.

“Good. That’s good.” Sansa breathed, “I love you so much sweetling, please don’t ever forget that.”

“I love you too Sansa.” Rickon tried to push all the love he felt into those words, tried to comfort her a little and give her something to hold onto.

If the choked, bitten off sob was any indication then she had understood and felt how true his words were.

“I bet its been a while since someone sang to you, hasn’t it?” Sansa said softly, and ran a hand over his hair. “Would you like me to sing to you now?”

Rickon did not have to even think about the enthusiastic yes he gave her, it was one of his few clear memories from before, Sansa and Mama singing to him.

“ _My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I’ll lay you down…”_


	4. Chapter 4

“Sing for us, dear wife.” Ramsay crooned, his eyes glittering with malice. “I know how you like to sing.”

He had heard her then, when she had sung to Rickon, but then how would he not have? She had sang song after song until he came to wrench her from her brother’s side once more, sang in the hope that he would be able to use the memory as comfort when the world seemed scarier and darker than ever.

“What would you have me sing, my lord?”

His lips curled back into a menacing smirk, “A song I know your mother and brother were particularly fond of. Sing to us ‘The Rains of Castamere’ sweet Sansa.”

A numbness overtook her and a ringing filled her ears. She had thought him cruel before, but this taunt was like a white hot knife piercing between her ribs, so direct and pointed as it was. Sansa found she wanted nothing more than to take the knife from the platter of meat before her and plunge it into his smirking face.

“No.” She breathed, the word slipping free without her permission.

“No?” Bolton said with a sort of incredulous glee, “Did you just refuse my simple request?”

Ice filled Sansa’s veins, a cold dread at what she had done.

At what her unthought reaction would cause.

Her breath started to quicken and her heartbeat sounded in her ears and she wanted nothing more than to run to Rickon, to throw herself around him and defend him with her own body.

Theon moved into her line of sight, looking more terrified than usual, his eyes flicked up to meet hers and she saw a spark of something within them, resolve perhaps. He moved closer with the flagon of wine he held and refilled Ramsay’s cup, his hands shaking so much it was a miracle he did not spill any.

“I asked you a question, dear wife.” Her husband crooned.

Sansa straightened her shoulders and pulled her chin up. If he was already angered then she would make him even more so, and hope he would be distracted enough that Rickon could escape.

She glanced once more at Theon, to try and tell him what she was planning and ignored the way he pled with her not to with his eyes.

“I said no.” Sansa looked Ramsay straight in the eye in a way she had not since standing before the Heart Tree, “I will not sing that song, now or ever. I will never sing the song that foul traitors killed my brother and mother to. I said no.”

Pure rage filled Ramsay’s eyes and face and Sansa did not quail in the force of it.

She would face any danger if it gave Rickon a chance to be free.

* * *

Reek knew Master was distracted. Reek knew Master was drunk.

Reek knew this because Reek had been Bad.

Reek had given Master the strong wine. And filled his cup up all the time.

He had hoped it would stop Master being too angry with Lady Sansa. Lady Sansa had been Bad but she did not deserve Master’s anger.

But a drunk and angry Master meant Reek had a chance. A chance to help.

Reek knew he could only help one person, knew the guards would notice if he tried to help Sansa and Rickon.

And Lady Sansa had ordered him to help Rickon. Lady Sansa had made Master angry so he would hav a chance to help Rickon.

Reek could not betray her too.

He held his head just a little bit higher, his shoulders a little bit straighter. For the first time in years he felt like a man instead of a creature.

Reek went first to the kitchens, no one suspected him for he had always carried dinner up to Rickon. Master found it funny to have Reek serve him. He took the tray, that had been laid out, one with exactly the amount of food that Master wanted Rickon to eat.

It was not much. Would not keep him going for long when they fled.

Reek caught the eye of one of the kitchen staff, a woman who had watched all of the Stark children grow. Sometimes she would slip him food, a heel of bread or a sip of broth, maybe she could help him.

He glanced down at the tray with its tiny bowl of stew and back up at her, hoping she would understand what he was asking without him having to voice it.

Something flashed across her face, something that Reek was too slow and stupid to understand and she strode over to the drying room where she gathered a bundle of cloth.

“Reek, come here.” She commanded, and he scurried over, flinching at the looks of disgust on the faces that he passed, “Lord Rickon’s clothes from the laundry. Return them to him along with his meal.”

The bundle was heavier than the ragged clothes that Rickon owned had any right to be, but Reek did not say anything, merely nodded his head and left with tray and bundle in tow.

He hoped that she would not be hurt for aiding their escape, but he knew his hope was likely false. Master would be angry and an angry Master was a vengeful Master.

Reek swallowed heavily as he reached the tower where Rickon was being kept, he did not have to do this. He could hide in the kennels until Master was not so angry.

A woman’s scream rent the air. Sansa’s scream.

Reek straightened his shoulders. He would not let her down. Would not let Him down again. He unlocked the door at the top of the stairs, the only room he held a key to and entered.

Rickon looked so very much like Him, red hair and straight nose and blue, blue eyes, that Reek struggled every time he saw him not to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for the Turncloak’s betrayal.

He barely looked up when Reek entered, just stayed curled up on his bed, wincing whenever another scream filtered through the air.

“Milord.” Reek croaked.

Rickon turned sharply towards him, as Reek knew he would. No one spoke to Rickon these days, unless it was Master coming to taunt him or Lady Sansa.

“Theon?”

Reek fought back a cringe at that name. He knew his name, he did!

He set down the tray and unwound the bundle as Rickon fell upon the tray, eating the thin stew while it was still warm and making sure to get every drop so that none of his small portion was wasted.

The bundle was better than Reek could have hoped, a loaf of bread and bag of dried fruit lay in its depths, while the bundle itself was formed of a tunic and thick socks.

It was a foolish kindness, to give Rickon so much, and yet it was a kindness that might just save his life.

“Milord.” Reek croaked again, once Rickon had finished his stew, “Put these on.”

Rickon looked at him suspiciously but did as he was told.

Reek grabbed a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around him in place of a cloak, he stuffed the bread and fruit down the front of his own shirt so that it was easier to carry and grabbed hold of Rickon’s hands.

“Come.” He said, fear preventing him from saying much more. “Come.”

Rickon followed him without question, out of the room and down the stairs until they reached a window just large enough to fit through.

Once the window had held glass, once it had been a place that He had come to, to sit on the sill when he wanted peace. Now it was open, freezing wind whistling through it, accompanying a snowdrift piled high.

He urged Rickon onto the sill and bade him jump, and when he had done so Reek took a deep breath.

And he flew.


	5. Chapter 5

Rickon ran as fast as he could, Theon still holding onto his hand as though to let go would be to admit defeat. He knew the way, if only from running it once before, from escaping his home once before.

The snow lay thick on the ground and he found himself so, so thankful for the extra socks Theon had bade him wear. He had been confused at first but the moment they landed in a snowbank it had all made sense.

The wind whipped through the air bitterly, cutting through the damp cloth he wore, causing himself and Theon to shiver violently. The shivering was good though, it was when you stopped shivering that you should be worried.

Father had taught him that once, one of the few lessons he still remembered from him.

When the snows started to fall again relief filled Rickon’s veins, for all it might be getting colder the lessons on tracking that Osha had given him filled his mind. Fresh snowfall would cover their tracks.

His foot caught on a root hidden beneath the snow and he fell. The jolt startled Rickon and for a moment he could do nothing more than stay prone on the floor.

Theon said nothing, but helped him up and held on to him even tighter as they continued to run, a palpable sense of urgency between them as the first howl filled the air.

The river still ran, ice encrusted its banks but the middle still had a fierce current flow. It would be folly to enter the water, the cold would leech any warmth that remained on their bones until they died.

“We have to cross here.” Theon said, the first words he had spoken since their escape.

The warning of Father and Mama and Robb and Osha all swirled around Rickon’s head, “Its too cold, we’ll die.”

Theon shuddered, “Better to die in the cold than from his hounds. I’ve seen what they will do to a person.”

He pulled Rickon close to his side and led him into the water, the thin ice instantly broke beneath them and plunged them into the frigid waters. Every so often the current would increase and they would cling tighter to one another, with the full awareness that to be swept away by the river was a death sentence.

By the time they had reached the other bank Rickon could feel that Theon’s shivers had slowed. Worry spiked within him, shivering slowing was bad, it meant the body was giving up.

The river crossing had probably brought them a few minutes, long enough for them to stop and catch their breath and try to share what little body heat they had left.

A faint howling sounded on the wind, the howling of dogs enjoying the chase and search they were part of. A howling of anticipation of what awaited them when they found their quarry.

Rickon cringed against Theon’s side, but could not bring himself to move. No matter the urgency of it all he could not bring himself to move.

His feet and hands and face were numb, a strange warmth started to fill his arms and legs, and somewhere in the back of his mind a half remembered lesson told him he should be worried.

The hounds howled again, closer than before, too close for them to outrun. They had missed their chance.

Rickon closed his eyes. He did not care if it made him craven.

He did not want to see his own death.

* * *

A strange sort of joy tinged the fear Sansa felt at Ramsay’s anger. The knowledge that Rickon had escaped, that Ramsay could no longer reach him tempered every hurt.

And oh, how she hurt.

She had though she had known pain before but she had been wrong. Her face was the only part of her that was not bruised or burned or bleeding, for even in the very depths of his anger Ramsay had wanted her kept pretty enough to show off.

And yet despite all the pain, despite her blood spilling over the flagstones, Sansa could not keep the smile from her face.

Her brother was free, Rickon was free Ramsay could not touch him. He could not be hurt any more, could not be punished for her actions. Theon had done as she asked, had chosen Rickon over her.

For once she was pleased that she was not someone’s first choice.

She could never have forgiven herself or Theon had Rickon been left behind. Sansa was far safer on Ramsay’s hands than anyone else for he needed her.

He needed her blood and her womb to grant him some measure of legitimacy over Winterfell and the North. He needed her child to bring the last of the Northern lords in line, and until he had that he would not kill her.

He could, and would, hurt her and try to break her all he wanted, but he could not cross that final line until she gave him an heir. Until she birthed him a healthy boy, she was safer than anyone else in the North.

It was a demeaning thing when she thought about it too deeply, but also unsurprising. Her enemies and allies had all reduced her down to her blood and ability to bear heirs since the death of her father. The only three who had not thought of her as such since then were lost to her, one gone when she fled Kings Landing, the other two hopefully more than halfway to the Wall by this point.

Search parties had gone after them, hounds and horses and men, but Sansa had not been told anything. She had been locked in the bedchamber, in Robb’s old bedchamber, for fear she might too try and escape.

The door creaked open and Sansa pulled her dignity around her like a well worn cloak, she would not let her husband see her pain or fear. She would not give him that piece of her.

The grin on Ramsay’s face had Sansa on instant alert. For him to look so happy something must have happened.

He stepped into the room, slowly and deliberately, and Sansa could not conceal the way she flinched every time his boot echoed against the stones of the floor.

“I have a present for you, sweet Sansa.” His smile became even more unhinged, “I know how worried you were about your brother out in the snow.”

Her heart sank, had he captured Rickon after all? Had his escape been for naught?

She was jolted from her fears by something landing on the floor in front of her, something red and round, that dripped and had landed with a soft splat.

“I know how worried you were, so I brought him home.”

As his words registered, so too did the hair on the object, the faint features that showed it was a head. A head that had been disfigured by teeth and claws and blood, but the auburn hair still shone through.

“Say hello to your baby brother, my dear.”

Sansa could not tear her eyes from the head. From Rickon’s head. Something inside her cracked, a final piece of her heart shattered.

Sansa screamed.


	6. Chapter 6

“Milord? There are people at the gates. They bear no arms but are asking for you by name.”

Jon looked up from his bags with confusion, who could be asking for him? He no longer was Lord Commander, there was no reason for them to.

He stood and followed the brother out to the courtyard where a crowd had already gathered, and stopped dead when he caught a glimpse of them.

For a moment he thought a ghost had come to visit him, thought Robb was there before him, and then he looked closer.

Red hair and a long face, one he had last seen rounded with the fat of childhood, one that still should be by all rights, looked up at him with a painful sort of hope and Jon was running to his baby brother before he even knew it.

Rickon ran to him as well, and they met in the middle in a crushing hug. Jon had never thought he would be able to hug his brother again, not after he had received news that they had died at the hands of…

His eyes caught sight of the Turncloak and anger bubbled up in his chest, fearsome in its magnitude.

How dare he ride into Castle Balck as though nothing was wrong? How dare he sit there upon a horse as though he had any right to life when he had betrayed Robb?

He set Rickon down and his hands reached for his sword, he would get vengeance for Robb and Bran and Winterfell.

“Come here and face me like a man Turncloak. Come and face your reckoning for your betrayal.”

The Turncloak slid down from his horse and hobbled over to stand before Jon, an expression of complete resignation on his face.

Jon raised his blade and yet before he could swing it Rickon dashed between the two of them, shielding the Turncloak with his own body.

“You can’t Jon!” There was real fear in Rickon’s eyes at the sight of Jon’s blade, and yet he stood firm between them, “You can’t kill Theon! He saved me!”

Jon did not understand Rickon’s words yet he lowered his blade anyway. He did not like the fear in his baby brother’s eyes, did not lie to have been the one to put it there.

Rickon’s shoulders relaxed as soon as Longclaw was sheathed, and, as if the thought of his death had been the only thing keeping him upright, the Turncloak collapsed into mud.

Without the red haze of anger over Jon’s vision he could see just how painfully thin and ill the Turncloak looked. The compassion that his father had worked hard to instil in all of them sparked to life at the pitiful sight and he turned to one of the stewards that was watching the spectacle.

“Prepare chambers for our guests and medical aid should they require it.” He turned away with his arm around Rickon, “Oh, and prepare a bath for Lord Greyjoy. He reeks.”

* * *

Jon helped Rickon bath himself, he could not find it in himself to relinquish the care of his baby brother to a steward. Not when he could hardly believe he was alive and there.

He also could not bring himself to dress Rickon in the musty clothes of a departed brother from the stores, instead he unpacked his own belongings to garb Rickon in. The arms might have been a little too small on the shirt, and the legs of his breeches barely grazed Rickon’s ankles, but he could tell that Rickon appreciated the gesture if nothing else.

Once Rickon was clean and warm and had eaten something he burrowed into Jon’s arms, seeking comfort the same way he had back when they were all in Winterfell.

“Where do you want to go, sweetling? We can go anywhere in the world.” The arrival of his brother had only increased Jon’s desire to never see the Wall again.

“Winterfell. I want to go back to Winterfell.”

Rickon’s answer caused confusion to spark in Jon’s chest, why would his brother want to go back to that castle, surely he did not have the same fond memories of it that his older siblings did?

“Why do you want to go back to Winterfell Rickon?”

“He has Sansa.” Rickon said softly from his position against Jon’s chest, “He has Sansa and he is going to be angry.”

Jon cupped the back of Rickon’s head closer, “Who has Sansa, sweetling?”

“Bolton. He has Sansa and he’s going to hurt her because Theon took me instead of her.” Rickon said, in a voice so quiet that Jon had to strain to hear it.

Dread filled Jon’s stomach at the thought of his little sister trapped with the man he had heard so many horrific stories about. He forced a smile onto his face and tried to make his voice as gruffly comforting as father’s had been, it likely was not as bad as Rickon believed, Sansa had always had a way of making people love her.

“I’m sure that Sansa is safe. It’s her husband’s job to protect her after all.”

Rickon pushed away from him and looked down at him with angry tears in his eyes, “You aren’t listening! Bolton is going to hurt her! He already does.”

Any attempt at calming his brother was instantly disbanded with those words.

“What do you mean ‘he already does’?” Jon questioned carefully.

The angry tears in Rickon’s eyes fell, spilling down his cheeks and dripping onto his clenched fists.

“He hurt her! I would fall asleep listening to her screams ringing through Winterfell! He told me he was going to kill her as soon as she gave him a son!”

The faint dread turned into an icy lump, “Rickon, how did you manage to escape? Why did Theon help you and not her?”

“Sansa told Theon to save me. She ordered him to leave her behind and, and then she made Bolton angry so he would be distracted by her.”

Jon pulled Rickon back so he was encircled in his arms once more, to try and offer what little comfort he could.

“Well then sweetling, lets save our sister.”

* * *

_To the Bastard and Traitor Jon Snow,_

_You have something of mine. I want it back._

_Return to me my pet and I will be merciful._

_Lady Bolton misses her brother. She cries all day for the lack of him._

_Return to me my good-brother and I will be merciful._

_Fail to do so and you will watch as my dogs tear apart your wildling friends._

_You will watch as I slowly flay the skin from your baby brother._

_You will watch as I rape your sweet sister until she bleeds and screams._

_And then I will rip out your eyeballs and feed them to you before having you join my precious Reek in the kennels._

_You have two weeks._

_Ramsay Bolton_

_Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am promising you all a happy ending... although I did appreciate your reactions to the previous chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

Reek found that the cold of the Wall was greater than any other cold he had found before. It was a bitter, biting cold, like the water had been in the river he and Rickon had crossed.

It was a cold echoed by the men at the Wall.

The only people who deigned to speak to him, who did not ignore his every move, were Rickon and Podrick, and the Lady Brienne.

Jon Snow ignored him. Pretended he did not exist. And even that was only due to Rickon begging his brother not to kill Reek.

Reek would have welcomed death. Reek would have deserved death.

He had betrayed his King. He had betrayed his friend. He had betrayed both his families.

He had been a coward and left Lady Sansa to the Master.

If Reek deserved death for any of his sins its was that last one. Reek knew what the Master was like when angry. Reek knew they would not be getting Sansa back whole and hale and healthy.

The piece of skin, crudely shaped like a heart, that had come with Bolton’s letter already attested to that.

Rickon wanted to rescue Sansa, wanted to take back Winterfell and kill Master.

Reek did not believe that Master could ever be killed but he would offer him whatever help he could. He would try and help save Sansa because she did not deserve anything Master had done to her.

Not like Reek had.

And maybe, if Reek did a good enough job helping to save Sansa, maybe He would forgive Reek when he joined him in the afterlife.

Reek could only hope.

* * *

There was a numbness in Sansa’s chest. In her mind.

A numbness similar to the one which had found her in Kings Landing, back when she had been told that Robb and Mother had died. Back when she had been told that Bran and Rickon had died.

And now Rickon had died for real.

Her husband had placed Rickon’s skull on the dresser opposite their bed. It watched over her all day, for Ramsay no longer let her leave their room. He did not trust that she would not run or do something to hurt herself.

Anything sharp had been removed, save her needles and pins. Those were too small for her to cause any damage anyway.

Not that she touched them. She did little with her time, just lay on the bed and stared at the walls. She slept when sleep wanted to claim her, and barely reacted any longer when her husband wanted to claim her.

She left the bed only to make water, to eat what little could be forced down under the threat of pain, and when she was forced to kiss her baby brother’s skull goodnight every evening.

Ramsay kept trying to make her react. Sansa did not.

She had not reacted when he told her he was going to gift her Robb’s head as well, that he was having it sent from the Twins for her. She had not reacted when he spoke of killing her last brother before her eyes, of killing Jon Snow.

Jon Snow would defend himself though, and there was little point in dwelling on him. He might have come for Arya, but he would not come for the sibling he had loved least.

The only reaction she had given was involuntary when he flayed skin from her back.

But that was not something he could do again. The Maester had told him not to. The Maester had said that it would surely cause her to lose any babe she might be carrying.

She had not bled for weeks, she might well be carrying. Part of Sansa hoped she was, so that she might give him a boy and then go to join her parents and siblings. The rest of her hoped she was not, that the lack of bleeding was due to grief and lack of food. She did not want to gift her husband a child to corrupt, did not want to offer him legitimacy through her blood.

Mostly though, Sansa was numb.

* * *

Rickon burned with anger and rage and a fierce desire to see Ramsay Bolton’s head mounted above the gates of Winterfell. He wanted justice for everything the man and his family had done, for the betrayal of Robb, the torment of Theon, and the torture of Sansa.

For the death of Shaggydog.

His anger had impressed the Free Folk, the way he had mourned Osha had won them over. The threats Bolton had sent had helped them swear to his cause, to remove Bolton from Winterfell and avenge them all. Jon had helped, had introduced them and helped him to understand their culture a little more, but it was Rickon’s words and fierce anger which had convinced them all.

But two thousand free Folk were not enough, not when Bolton commanded six thousand. He needed more men, needed allies and support as he fought to free his home and sister.

He needed his bannermen, those who had been sworn to House Stark for millennia.

Jon had helped him write a letter, aided by Ser Davos who had been Hand to King Stannis, to call for aid from those bannermen. One filled with the truth of Bolton and reminding them of the oaths they had sworn, to his father, and to Robb.

He also sent letters to Riverrun and the Vale, the Vale by raven and Riverrun in the hands of Lady Brienne. He still had family alive, as Jon had reminded him, still had his mother’s family he could ask for help.

An aunt in the Vale and an uncle in the Riverlands, one sworn to Robb, the other who had remained neutral. If he was lucky then one would come to his aid, one would be able to send men and arms to his cause.

They might not be able to join them in time, might not be able to mobilise troops quickly enough, but Rickon had to try. The Stark name must still have some weight, his mother’s name must still have some weight.

And he was Robb’s true heir, the heir to the throne of the North.

It was not a seat he wanted, but if it was the only way to save his sister then he would gladly claim it.

* * *

_To the loyal lords of the North,_

_The Bastard and Traitor Ramsay Snow holds Winterfell. He holds my sister, Sansa Stark, as his hostage and wife. Her screams fill the halls of Winterfell, day and night._

_He killed my direwolf and protectors, murdered his own father, stepmother and half-brothers._

_Ramsay Snow is a kinslayer and oathbreaker._

_You swore oaths to my father, oaths to my brother, your king, and now I ask you to swear those oaths to me, their heir._

_I will ride against Ramsay Snow to avenge my brother, to avenge your king, and I ask for your aid._

_Rickon Stark, Heir to King Robb._


	8. Chapter 8

Jon was so proud of his little brother; of the army he had built in such a short amount of time. His rallying cry had called so many of the lords to them, pledging men and arms to retaking Winterfell, to restoring the throne of the North.

He knew Rickon did not want to be king, that he did not really want to do as Robb had done, and yet he claimed it anyway. He claimed the throne and crown because it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do to remove the Boltons from the North and rescue Sansa.

And Jon could not be more proud.

Rickon listened to his advice, and that of the other lords, and used that which he thought important. He was a good leader, a good commander. It was like seeing Robb come again sometimes, only Rickon was quicker to anger and far less prideful.

The way Theon followed him around just helped to reinforce the image that Rickon was Robb, for Theon doted on Rickon with a strange sort of intensity.

Jon did not really approve of Theon being near Rickon, and yet he could do nothing to stop them. Rickon seemed to take comfort from his presence, and Theon seemed to take comfort from being near Rickon as well.

Theon was broken, he flinched from everyone who spoke to him and Jon had been told that he refused to sleep in a bed, preferring to curl up on the cold stones instead. Every time he saw Theon his anger and bitterness slipped a little further away, he found he could not stay angry at someone so pitiful.

Jon could not afford to dwell too long on Theon though, he had an army to prepare in Rickon’s name, and a sister to save.

* * *

Petyr Baelish had responded to Rickon’s letter with a worrying quickness, as though he had been lurking at the borders of the North just waiting to be called. He had tried to build a trust between them, by mentioning how much like Sansa and mama he looked, but Rickon did not trust him. He did not like the way Baelish’s mouth curled around Sansa’s name, as though she was a thing to covet rather than someone Rickon loved.

“Lord Baelish.” Rickon bared his teeth into a facsimile of a smile, “Your response was quick.”

Petyr Baelish inclined his head, “I was nearby, Lord Stark. And when I heard your request for help, well we are family are we not?”

Rickon wanted to snarl at the man who had sold his sister to a monster, at the man who even now professed to be family as though Rickon had no knowledge of his sins.

“And I assume you will want something in return for your help?” Rickon did not bother to temper his words, “Some reward for saving my sister from the man who makes her scream in pain?”

Baelish’s eyes gained a distinctly sly glint, “I only ask that our alliance be bound the old way, that a marriage joins our Houses together. Once your sister is safe and healed, I ask that you turn her into my tender care, for I will treasure her.”

Rickon wanted to tear Baelish’s face off, wanted to rip his throat out and bathe in his blood. How dare the man stand there and ask for Sansa’s hand in marriage? How dare he try to take Rickon’s sister away?

But he could not do any of that. He had to be smart, he needed allies to save his sister and the Knight of the Vale were great allies indeed.

“Once my sister has recovered from her treatment at the hands of the man you sold her to, and once she is capable of making her own decisions, then you might make your offer to her, Lord Baelish.” Rickon decreed, hating himself for saying such words, “It will be her choice entirely as to whether she accepts your proposal.”

A smile found its way on to Baelish’s face, snakelike and unpleasant to behold, he bowed to Rickon with a flourish that had no place in the North.

“I thank you, Lord Stark. May this alliance between us be fruitful indeed.”

Rickon looked into his eyes and decided, then and there, that he would kill Petyr Baelish as soon as he had the chance. No one would try and take Sansa away again.

* * *

Reek was being as Good as he could for Lord Rickon. He tried to help him as much as he could, because Reek needed to serve someone, otherwise he was useless.

And Lady Bolton had told Reek he needed to look after Lord Rickon.

Reek tried to be good and follow her orders, tried to be good and follow Lord Rickon’s orders, but Lord Rickon did not want Reek. Lord Rickon wanted Theon.

Reek did not know how to be Theon any more.

Master had flayed Theon out of Reek, had made it so very little of the Ironborn remained in his servant. Master had been too good at making Theon into Reek and now Reek did not know how to change back, not even when he was ordered to.

And if Reek could not be the Theon that Rickon wanted, then he would be the best Reek he could be.

He would be so good that no one would ever have to punish him again, so good that Lord Rickon would not be forced to hurt him to make him learn.

“Greyjoy.”

Reek jumped at the sound of Jon Snow’s growl, at the fact that he had been snuck up on while he was not doing anything. While he was being nothing more than a waste of space.

“Milord.” Reek looked at the floor, at the cold stones that burned when he slept on them at night.

“Fucks sake Greyjoy.” Jon Snow scrubbed a hand over his face, “Don’t fucking call me that.”

Reek did not understand. What would he call him if not ‘milord’? Reek could not use his name, that was Bad.

He said nothing and kept looking at the stones.

A hand reached out to him and Reek could not stop himself from flinching away. As soon as he realised what he had done, Reek froze.

Flinching was Bad. Flinching meant Reek did not appreciate the attentions Master bestowed on him.

Reek dropped to his knees, uncaring of how they cracked against the stone and how the cold instantly bled through his breeches.

“Sorry milord, sorry.” He whimpered, “Bad Reek, Freak Reek.”

He heard a heavy sigh above him and Reek started to tremble even more. Jon Snow had always been strong, always been good with a sword, and Reek was scared of how he might use that knowledge.

Strong, warms arms wrapped around him and Reek tensed, he did not understand.

Jon Snow must have felt his tensing, must have felt the fear that Reek could not hide.

“Its just a hug Theon.” He said gruffly, “I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just a hug.”

Reek did not believe him, but despite his fear he could not help but relax into Jon Snow’s arms.

It was nice to be warm.

* * *

There was a sense of anticipation, a fierce awareness of just what they were riding into.  
The lords of the North accompanied Rickon and Jon, but they had deliberately left Lord Baelish behind. They did not wish for Bolton to know that the Knights of the Vale were to aid them, did not wish for the true numbers they held to be known.

Their best chance was for Bolton to leave Winterfell, for him to be goaded onto the battlefield. And if he knew quite how outnumbered he was he would never leave the safety of Winterfell’s walls.

Banners flapped in the wind behind them, the Stark direwolf flying higher than it had in years, proudly flying in the weak autumn sun. Alongside it was a bear and a mermaid, a battleaxe and a fist; all together to remove the threat to their people.

Bolton had brought few people with him, Lords Karstark and Umber, and a few soldiers. Rickon wanted to shout at them, to decry them all as traitors and scum, but a comforting hand on his arm from Jon stopped him.

Rickon could see how Theon trembled when Bolton got close enough they could see his smirk, how he looked like he was torn between bolting away and throwing himself at Bolton’s feet.

“You don’t have to be here Theon.” Jon turned to look at Theon, the first proper look that Rickon had seen them share.

Theon shook even harder, “I do.”

Bolton’s smirk turned into a grin as he came even closer, “My dear good-brother, how myself and Lady Bolton have missed you terribly. And Reek as well! I knew you would return to me.” He turned to Jon and adopted a more formal tone, “Thank you for returning Lord Rickon and my pet safely. Now dismount and kneel before me, surrender your army and proclaim me the true Warden of the North. I will pardon you for desertion, I will pardon all these treasonous lords.”

Silence reigned and Rickon could see how the quiet discomforted Bolton, how it made him uneasy.

“Come Bastard.” He tried once more to make Jon dismount, “You do not have the men and you don’t have Winterfell. There is no need for a battle, merely get off your horse and kneel.”

The sound of banners flapping in the wind was the only thing that could be heard until Jon shifted in his saddle. For a moment Rickon feared his brother would dismount, that he would surrender and leave Sansa and Rickon and Theon to Bolton’s torment once more.

“You’re right.” Jon said, “There’s no need for a battle. Thousands of men don’t need to die, only one of us. Let’s fight, you against me.”

Guilt filled every ounce of Rickon at his unkind thoughts, of course Jon would not do such a thing, of course he would do something stupidly noble instead.

Bolton laughed coldly, “I keep hearing stories about you. The way people in the North talk it, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked. I don’t know if I would beat you, but I know my army would beat yours. I have six thousand men, you have not even half that.”

Jon scoffed, “Aye, you have the numbers, but will your men want to fight for you when they hear you won’t fight for them.”

Rickon worked not to flinch at the anger that passed over Bolton’s face, and at his side Theon let out a whimper too low to be heard by anyone else.

Bolton shook a finger at them, “You’re good. Tell me though, will you still be so sure when to kill me would be to leave your sister’s babe fatherless?”

“Sansa is pregnant?” Rickon could not stop himself from speaking, could not keep the words contained in his shock and horror.

“Why yes, you are soon to be an uncle Lord Rickon. And because I am such a kind husband, I gifted her a pelt to warm her. We have little need for the head though.” Bolton gestured to Lord Umber by his side, who reached into his saddle bags to pull out something.

Lord Umber threw it to the floor and a scream ripped through the air as Shaggy’s head stared up at them.

It was only when a hand was placed upon his arm that Rickon realised it was he that had screamed.

He had known something had happened, a sense of loss had filled him that morning, but he had not realised what it had meant.

Bolton continued to grin at them all, his face so smug that the urge to rip it apart with Rickon’s own teeth was stronger than ever.

“You will pay for that Lord Bolton. And all your crimes against my sister.” Rickon started to turn his horse away, unable to look at the man any longer, “Winter is coming, and it is coming for you.”

Rickon rode off, not capable of listening to the man who tortured Theon into near insanity, the man who made Sansa’s screams ring around Winterfell, any longer.

If anything else important was said then he was sure Jon would tell him.


	9. Chapter 9

Jon was restless upon his horse, he wanted to rush at the enemy, wanted it over with so that his siblings were safe as soon as could be. Rickon had insisted on a chance to address their enemy before the battle, on calling across the battlefield in an attempt to divert some of their forces away.

Jon had agreed, on the provision that Rickon return to their camp once he was done, he would not have his baby brother in the middle of a battle.

“Men of the North!” Rickon called, looking even more like Robb than ever, “Men of the North I speak to you now, I am Rickon Stark, last trueborn son of Eddard Stark, the heir to King Robb Stark. I do not wish for a battle to see blood spilt; I only wish to save my sister from the man whose makes it so her screams ring throughout Winterfell. Any man who lays down his arms now will be pardoned, any man who does not fight against us may return to his home.”

It was unlikely that Rickon’s words would spark any great mutiny among Bolton’s men, but the offer satisfied the part of Rickon which still believed in the great goodness inside of every man. Jon no longer believed in that, but he would not quash what innocence his little brother still had.

Bolton’s men shuffled in place, evident even from across the battlefield, but not one man moved. Not one man deserted. The fear of their commander too great to take the pardon offered.

The disappointment on Rickon’s face was great, even more so when Jon sent him away with Theon to his side. Jon might not trust Theon but he knew he would do anything to keep Rickon safe.

Tormund shifted by his side, “Are yer ready, Little Crow?”

Jon glanced at him, “Aye, lets show this monster why the Free Folk are feared in the North. Let him see why the Stark sigil is a wolf.”

As soon as Rickon was safely away Jon turned back to look upon the waiting army, to the flayed man banners flying above the walls of his home, and allowed the rage to fill him again. He bared his teeth into a snarl and placed his helmet upon his head, if he was to die on this day then it would be defending the last of his family, a better death than his last one.

“For Winterfell!” He cried, a call taken up by the men behind him.

Hoofbeats thundered as they charged, as they rode into the jaws of death.

“For Winterfell! For the Starks!”

* * *

Rickon did not like that he had been told to stay behind with the women and children by Jon. He understood it, for he had no experience in battle and little training with a sword, but he did not like it.

“Lord Stark.”

“Lady Mormont.” Rickon could not remember all of the lessons his mother had taught him about courtesy, could not remember all that Sansa had taught him, but he knew enough to be polite.

“It feels unfair, does it not, that we are left behind while others fight?” Lyanna Mormont said, “That we are left when my sister fought alongside your brother.”

“My brother fights even now, and I am left here. For all I understand it, it does still sting.” Rickon admitted.

“That it does.” Lyanna inclined her head, “Tell me, Lord Stark, do you plan to take up your brother’s crown? Will you let us crown you King in the North?”

Rickon had expected such a question from the Lady, had expected that there would be a question of that nature. When she had answered his call, when she had first arrived from Bear Island, she had knelt before him as if he was King.

“Aye, I will. For as long as it keeps my sister safe, I will gladly take up the crown.”

Lyanna cocked her head, “Lady Bolton you mean? Or Lady Lannister? There have been conflicting reports of her name.”

Rickon’s hand shot to the knife at his belt and it was with great effort on his part that he did not draw it.

“My sister is and will always be Lady Stark. She is the trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark and deserves your allegiance.” He snarled, “Sansa has been through things you would never believe as the pawn and plaything of our enemies, do not insult her or belittle her in my presence.”

Lady Mormont shied away, a hint of fear in her face at the ferocity of his voice.

“Of course, my lord.” She murmured, “I should not have spoken thusly. Forgive me.”

Rickon softened his anger, “You are forgiven. Just be warned that the next person I hear speaking out against my sister will be made an example of. I will not have her suffer more.”

Lady Mormont met his gaze, “I shall pass on the message, Your Grace, no man shall slander the princess in my presence.”

He nodded once, “See that you do, my lady. I would hate to return to my home on a sour note.”

Rickon turned back to watch the battle unfolding before them. A prayer on his lips for all those who had fallen.

* * *

Blood and mud.

The scent of shit and piss.

Screams and moans from dying men.

A cacophony of sounds and smells and death.

It was brutal and horrid and exactly as they had planned.

The cavalry had clashed, a great wall of noise and flashing swords in the weak sun. A charge that was like nothing in the songs, no glory or honour, only bloodlust and gore.

Were Jon fighting for something other than the safety of his family he would have wept at the senseless death and destruction of so many. Longclaw was slick in his grip, blood splattered on the blade and hilt, still warm on his cheeks.

Arrows flew around them, fletched in pink. Bolton arrows, the man not caring if his own men were killed.

Bodies piled up, towering and stinking. Numbers dwindling on both sides.

Jon sung his sword once more, sinking it through the belly of a man with the flayed man on his breast. A spurt of blood was his reward, misting his hair and splattering him with yet more red. The fresh scent of shit followed when he removed his blade, the prize for piercing an intestine.

He was not so cruel to leave the man to die slowly, his body poisoned and trampled. He raised Longclaw again and stabbed it through the man’s neck. A kinder and quicker death.

A second wave of men fell upon them, Umbers and Karstarks. The men who had sold Rickon to Bolton to save their own skins.

The mere sight of their banners filled Jon with unbridled rage. These men had stood by Robb’s side, had lost men to the Red Wedding, and yet they chose to aid the family which had orchestrated it.

Death would be too kind a punishment for their treachery.

Just as the Umber men reached them so horns filled their air. Horns bringing with them hope, and the knowledge that the battle was theirs.

The silver and blue falcons of the Vale, the sign that their reinforcements had arrived, the men that Bolton knew nothing about. Men that Rickon had wrangled from Lord Baelish, men that had come to aid the cousins of their lord.

And then, to Jon’s shock, shock that nearly had him killed as a man aimed an axe his way, the red and blue trout of the Tully’s appeared as well. The Riverlands had come for the heir of their king, the Riverlands had come for the last of Lady Catelyn’s sons.

The sight of their allies, of fresh men with steel and horses of their own leant a new life into Jon’s men. They fought harder than before as the Arryn and Tully troops decimated those of the Umbers and Karstarks.

Soon very few of the Bolton troops were left, and Jon had a clear view to Bolton himself. A clear view to the man who had tortured his sister and brother.

He took the horse that one of the Vale knights offered when they realised who he was and galloped after Bolton, bloodlust and rage infusing every part of him. He would not let the man hide behind the walls of Winterfell, would not let his men’s deaths be in vain.

Tormund and Ser Davos and a knight of the Vale and a man who could only be the Blackfish joined him, their horses racing across the plains towards Winterfell. Towards the castle which had been his family’s home and their prison.

They arrived just before the gates could be shut, bursting into the courtyard with a clatter of hooves and steel. A foolish move perhaps, for Bolton could have had archers on the ramparts just waiting to take him down, and yet Jon did not care.

Not when he was so close to ending it, not when he was so close to delivering the monster’s head to Sansa.

Fear filled Bolton’s eyes, fear that looked out of place above his cocky smirk. Jon did not care. He wanted the monster to be afraid, to suffer like his siblings had suffered. He wanted Bolton to piss himself from fear, piss himself like the men he had sent to die.

Jon advanced on him with Longclaw held loosely in his hands, he did not want to use his sword, did not want to give Bolton the quick end afforded by a Valyrian steel blade. He would much rather use his fists or the hounds Bolton had threatened him with. He wanted Bolton to suffer, to spend his last moments in agonising pain.

Jon smiled as Bolton scrabbled for a bow and arrows, it seemed like finally the man wanted to fight one on one. He would be happy to oblige, to remove the threat to his family and force what surrender he could from those men that survived.

“Now Bastard, are you not going to fight fair?” Bolton sneered, “Are you not going to give me the fight you offered so graciously?”

Jon’s smile widened, “Stand down.” He ordered, “Lets see if Ramsay Snow has the skills to defend himself without sending thousands to the slaughter.”

Tormund grumbled, as did Ser Davos, but they stood down. They understood that this fight was not for them. It took a further glare for the Blackfish and the knight of the Vale to stand down, but they did so, merely offering Jon a shield instead, to aid him in his defence.

There was an irony of sorts, in using a shield with the Tully trout on it to defend himself, of using a shield containing the sigil of the House of a woman who had always resented his place in Winterfell to aid his return to the castle. It was not an irony he could ponder over long though, not when Bolton took aim with his bow and fired.

Jon caught the arrows on his shield, each one jarring him and likely would have knocked him over had he not been so filled with a lust to see Bolton’s guts upon the floor.

The fear in Bolton’s eyes started to migrate down his face, until his cocky smirk was replaced entirely. It was a beautiful sight.

A sight Jon happily drove the hilt of Longclaw into, knocking Bolton to the mud with blood gushing from his nose.

Jon threw his sword and shield to the side and started to use his fists instead, pummelling away at Bolton’s face with no care for his surroundings, no care for anything but the feel of bone crunching beneath his fists and the pained whimpers that Bolton let out.

“Jon.” Rickon’s voice broke through the haze, “Jon, don’t kill him now. Sansa deserves to see it.”

He looked up to see his little brother, garbed in Stark grey with an earnest expression upon his face, and realised that Rickon was right. Sansa deserved to have a say in the fate of her tormentor, a say in how he died.

“Take him to the cells.” He ordered, gesturing at the prone body beneath him, “Lock him up until Lady Stark is able to have her say in his fate.”

He stalked towards the keep, Rickon at his side, only one thought on his mind.

“My lords,” The Knight of the Vale called out, “Where are you going?”

Jon turned around and growled, unhappy to be interrupted.

“To find our sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note of explanation about the Blackfish showing up for Rickon when he didn't for Sansa: a) I prefer the book version of him where he seems to embody his words of 'Family, duty, honour' and believe that man would come for any of Cat's children, and b) Its likely that even the show version would have come to the aid of Robb's (male) heir


	10. Chapter 10

Sansa knew that Ramsay had been challenged by a Northern Lord, how could she not have known when the whole castle was preparing for battle and when he was in such a rage each night? She did not dare hope that the challenging Lord would win though, did not dare dream that she might some day leave this nightmare except to join her mother and father and siblings.

Ramsay had been ever so slightly kinder to her since her moon blood had stopped, had fed her slightly more and stopped using knives in the bedchamber. It was all at the Maester’s advice of course, she doubted he would care enough to do otherwise.

She did fear though what his reaction would be once he found out she was not with child.

Sansa knew she was not, because she had ensured she would not be. She had drunk the moon tea that one of the kitchen maids had snuck her, a maid who had served at Winterfell since Sansa’s own father was a babe. The servants could do little to aid her, but they could ensure she was not forced to carry her rapist’s child to term.

The clashing of swords and screams of men told Sansa that the battle had made its way to Winterfell, and when silence suddenly filled the air her numbness only increased, until it seemed to coat everything around her.

She did not know how long she spent, curled up surrounded by her shroud of numbness, but her door burst open to reveal a face she had thought long gone. A face she had last seen tarred and rotting above the walls of Kings Landing.

Her father had come, and if he was there then she must have been dead. It was a thought that was far sweeter than it should have been, one she knew should have worried her for its sweetness.

“Sansa?” He called out, in that voice that was so beloved.

“Father.” She greeted him back, the first smile she had smiled in a long while pulling at the muscles of her face.

But father did not approach her, he looked at her with an expression she could not read and walked away from her. Fear gripped Sansa’s heart, did her father no longer love her? Did he blame her for running to Cersei when she was a stupid little girl? Did he think she was no longer a Stark?

“Father? Don’t leave me!” She did not realise she had started to sob and cry until her cheeks were wet and tears started to drip from her chin, “Father, please, I’m sorry! Don’t leave me here, please!”

Father rushed over at the sound of her cries and wrapped her in his arms, giving her a sense of safety that she had not felt for so many years, “Shh sweet girl, I’m not going to leave you. You don’t need to worry, I’m here, I’ll protect you.”

Sansa curled her face into him, savouring the gentle feel of his arms and the warmth he seemed to emit. But she was not content, not when he was the only one to have come for her. Not when mother and Robb stayed away.

She would not be surprised if they could not bear to see her. She was a traitor, had been married to two of their enemies, and besides, they had no reason to love her.

Not when it was her fault that Baby Rickon was dead.

“Are mother and Robb still angry at me?” She asked, her face still pressed into his shoulder, “Is that why they aren’t here father?”

Her father sounded so very sad when he spoke, “I am not our father Sansa, I’m Jon, your brother, Jon. And Robb and your mother could never be angry at you, never.”

But if Jon was there, not father or mother or Robb, that meant that the rest of her family must have hated her. She had never been close with Jon, had wanted to please her mother too much to be close with her half-brother, so for him to have come for her must have meant that everyone else hated her. More than that though, it meant that there were no more of her family still living. It meant that the Boltons and Lannisters had truly won.

“Oh. Did Ramsay get you too then?” Sansa lifted her head so she could look at her older brother, “He’s going to be disappointed he could not give me your skull to sit next to Rickon’s.”

It was strange to think of how disappointed her husband would be, that he would not be able to gift her the skull of another of her brothers. Perhaps he would still keep Jon’s, would display it next to Rickon’s and maybe even her own.

“Sansa, sweetling, I’m not dead, and neither are you.” Jon said softly, an emotion that Sansa could not recognise in his voice, “You are alive and safe from Bolton. Even now he sits in a cell, awaiting judgement for his crimes.”

His words made no sense. They must be dead. She couldn’t be alone again.

“You mean I won’t get to see everyone again? That I won’t get to see Rickon and Father and Mother and Robb?”

“You will see Rickon sweetling, he’s alive, he made it to Castle Black with Theon. He’s the one who gathered the army, the one who convinced the Vale and Northern Houses to fight for us. Rickon lives.” Jon said with the same calm assurance in his voice that Father always used to have.

The thought of Rickon being alive was too much for Sansa to deal with, the information just one more piece that suddenly made everything too difficult to handle. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she slipped into the comforting darkness of unconsciousness.

* * *

There was a figure, curled up in the corner of the main bedchamber, a single blanket pulled around their shoulders. They flinched from the door and the sound of footsteps and as they did so a braid of red hair was uncovered.

Jon’s heart sank into his boots, and a sense of dread overtook him.

“Sansa?” He called out; his voice as gentle as he could make it.

She looked up at him, her eyes too large in her pale face, and smiled.

“Father?”

There was a sort of raw hope in her voice that made Jon want to wince at the strength of it. He moved away from her to gather another blanket to wrap her in, she was far too thin to be able to handle the cold alone.

“Father? Don’t leave me!” Sansa started to cry as he moved out of her eyeline, “Father, please, I’m sorry! Don’t leave me here, please!”

Jon quickly found the thickest blanket and returned to his sister’s side, “Shh sweet girl, I’m not going to leave you. You don’t need to worry, I’m here, I’ll protect you.”

He scooped her up into his arms, her head cradled against his shoulder, and staggered at how light she was.

“Are mother and Robb still angry at me?” Sansa mumbled, “Is that why they aren’t here father?”

Jon smiled down at her, “I am not our father Sansa, I’m Jon, your brother, Jon. And Robb and your mother could never be angry at you, never.”

“Oh. Did Ramsay get you too then?” Sansa lolled her head so she could look at him, “He’s going to be disappointed he could not give me your skull to sit next to Rickon’s.”

The skull that had sat on the dresser suddenly made a terrible sort of sense, beyond what Jon had thought was merely Ramsay Bolton’s terrible sense of interior design.

“Sansa, sweetling, I’m not dead, and neither are you.” Jon said softly, with as much care as he could possibly infuse into his voice, “You are alive and safe from Bolton. Even now he sits in a cell, awaiting judgement for his crimes.”

Sansa let out a whimper, “You mean I won’t get to see everyone again? That I won’t get to see Rickon and Father and Mother and Robb?”

There was such abject misery in her bearing, in her every word that Jon could not help but hold her a little tighter.

“You will see Rickon sweetling, he’s alive, he made it to Castle Black with Theon. He’s the one who gathered the army, the one who convinced the Vale and Northern Houses to fight for us. Rickon lives.”

Sansa fainted in his arms, and Jon found he could not begrudge her it. From the sight of her, and the reports from Rickon and Theon, she had had a difficult and painful few months at the least. He just cradled her a little closer and cursed the gods and her husband for how she had been mistreated.

When he emerged from the room in which she had been kept, Rickon rushed at him, eager to see their sister. His little brother stopped short though, when he saw how pale and still Sansa was in his arms.

“Is Sansa well?” Rickon asked, obvious fear in his voice.

Jon tried to smile softly, “She is just tired, sweetling. She has been very scared for a very long time, and now that she is finally safe she knows she can sleep.”

Rickon nodded his head and shifted in place, “I don’t think mother’s rooms were used very much. They might be a good place for us to go.”

Jon could not remember setting foot in Lady Stark’s chambers, could not recall spending time in their famed warmth. But from what Robb and Arya had said of them, he knew they would be perfect for Sansa to recover in.

He gestured for Rickon to lead the way and together they travelled through the halls, away from the room which had once been Robb’s, and into the chambers of Lady Stark.

Heat hit him as he walked through the door, the innermost room of the castle still well warmed even after the damage that had been caused when Winterfell burned. A heavy oak bed, piled high with furs and cushions stood in the centre of the room, while banners displaying the Bolton and Frey sigil hung where once there would have been direwolves and trout.

Likely the last person who would have had this room had been Roose Bolton’s Frey wife, and Jon shuddered to think of what her fate might have been.

He placed Sansa upon the bed and tucked the furs around her so that she would not be chilled when she awoke. Rickon slid into the bed next to her, their baby brother obviously exhausted by the excitement of the day, and he curled around Sansa like they were wolf pups.

Jon himself looked longingly at the bed, but he did not know how Sansa would react should she wake to a strange man in her bed, instead he sat in a chair by the fire, Longclaw over his lap, and prepared to stand watch. No one would hurt his family no he finally had them back.

Theon had almost wept to see what had become of Sansa since Reek had left her alone with Master. to see how her proud posture instead looked almost defeated, to see how she no longer flinched at raised voices and blade, that instead she stared at them dully, as though accepting any pain that would come.

It hurt to see her like that. To know that his actions had caused that.

It hurt to know that he had chosen for Sansa to be the one left behind.

She seemed to light up a little for Rickon, a hint of joy at seeing her baby brother alive in her face, but Theon did not know if it was all a ruse. Just like Reek did not know whether Theon or Reek was real.

Reek shivered at being back in Winterfell, at the corridors in which he had suffered, and surrounded by men which sneered at him for Theon’s name. The castle was both the place of his greatest shame, and his greatest pride.

He spent a lot of time with Sansa when Jon could not. She needed someone with her otherwise she would slip into the way she had acted around Master. Reek did as well sometimes, and he knew it helped to have company.

They had sent a raven to Yara. And Reek did not know if he wanted to see his sister again. He did not know if he wanted to face her disappointment and pity.

He had to though, had to help her claim the crown that was rightfully hers. Just as he had to watch Master die so he would stop haunting his every move.

* * *

Rickon clutched at Sansa’s hand. He did not want to look at Bolton but neither could he look away.

“Ahh my sweet wife.” Bolton spat blood to the side. “Baby Rickon as well. Isn’t this touching? And Reek! I knew my pet could not stay away for too long.”

Sansa squeezed Rickon’s hand and Rickon squeezed it back, hoping to offer her some small comfort. On Sansa’s other side he noticed that Theon had done the same.

Bolton did not notice, or if he did, he did not make any mention of it. Instead he ran his gaze over the rest of the room, as though he was trying to determine why they were there.

“You’ll never be rid of me you know.” Bolton said in an almost friendly voice, “I am a part of you all now, forever. Of course a part of me will live in a far more literal way, thanks to my dear, sweet wife.”

He looked at Sansa, at Sansa’s stomach, with something similar to pride. Rickon did not like the look, nor the deeper, darker undertones it held.

“You lost.” Rickon said, “You lost and now you are going to pay for the crimes you committed against my family and my people.”

“Your people?” Bolton smiled with bloodstained teeth, “Shall we call you the Baby Wolf then? Or perhaps the Younger Wolf? Although, I suppose, you do not have a wolf anymore, do you?”

A snarl ripped its way out of Rickon’s throat at the reminder of his loss of Shaggydog. At the reminder that it was Bolton who had caused his death.

“Your words will disappear. Your House will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you will disappear.” Sansa said coldly, speaking before Rickon had a chance to and sounding almost like she was well.

Bolton let out a rusty laugh, one that echoed around the kennels until it was overpowered by the sound of the iron gates opening.

Rickon had given Theon the honour to open the gates between the cells, to let the hounds swarm around Bolton. A poetic sort of justice, an end fitting for a man who enjoyed threatening others with his savage mutts.

“My hounds will never harm me. They are loyal beasts.”

“You haven’t fed them in seven days.” Theon shook, but his voice was strong, “They were loyal. Now they are starving.”

The hounds started to sniff around Bolton, likely able to smell the blood upon him. Rickon felt a sudden burst of longing for Shaggydog, for the chance that was taken for Bolton to have truly been defeated by wolves instead of these paltry imitations.

(And if he wanted to be able to slip into Shaggydog himself, the way he had sometimes when dreaming, if he wanted to feel the tear of flesh and the spray of blood erupting from Bolton’s neck himself, well, who would blame him?)

They watched and waited as the hounds ripped into Bolton, listened as his screams rang through the kennels until quite suddenly they stopped and only the growling of the dogs and the sound of flesh tearing could be heard. They waited and watched until little remained of the man who had once been the Bastard of Bolton.

Sansa started to cry once that happened, great heaving sobs of relief at the death of her tormenter, and Rickon folded her into a hug. He didn’t like how small Sansa had seemed since he had come back for her, didn’t like the way she trembled when people got too close.

He led her and Theon from the kennels, back into the warmth of the keep. The Maester said that the two of them were too thin to be safe to be outside for long, that their bodies did not have enough fat on them to keep them warm.

It meant that they all spent a lot of time in mother’s rooms.

Rickon tucked Sansa up into bed, the way Jon did for him sometimes, the way he could vaguely remember mother doing. Theon refuse to sleep in the bed, preferring to curl up on a rug by the fire instead, and Rickon could not see the point in arguing about it with him.

Technically they all had their own rooms, with mother’s belonging to Sansa, and father’s having been given to Rickon, but he rarely used it. Instead Rickon curled around Sansa, on the bed which had been their mother’s. He relished in the sound of her heartbeat and the scent of lemons that never seemed to leave her, and closed his eyes.

They were safe, Bolton was dead, Winterfell was theirs, and Rickon would never let anyone hurt Sansa again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we come to the end! Once I have finished some of my other WIP I might come back and write a sequel in this universe, but for now this is complete.   
> Thank you so much to everyone who had read, kudosed, and commented on this fic :)
> 
> If you want to come find me on tumblr @istaricelebelasse


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